


Holding up a 1-Iron

by sparrowhawk17



Series: Holding up a 1-Iron [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-02 16:53:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrowhawk17/pseuds/sparrowhawk17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Sheppard is a reclusive pro golfer with a sordid past that no one has been able to draw out of him.  Rodney McKay is the investigative reporter who has a reputation for always getting the answer he’s looking for.  Why does Sheppard stay away from the lime light? Why does he never win a championship when everyone knows he can? How far is McKay willing to go to get his story?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted on my LiveJournal in response to a challenge. It has since grown to have multiple extra stories, which I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis and all of its characters and ideas belong to Brad Wright and Jonathan C. Cooper and MGM and Acme Shark and a whole host of others whom I have failed to mention. I am not making a profit from this story. Any characters you are not familiar with are from my brain.

_“If you are caught on a golf course during a storm and are afraid of lightning, hold up a 1-iron. Not even God can hit a 1-iron.”_  
\- Lee Trevino

 

“Elizabeth,” Rodney began, “have I got a story for you.”

“About what, Rodney,” she sighed, having heard this many times before.

“John Sheppard,” was all he said before hanging up his phone.

Elizabeth Weir, editor of _The South Bend Tribune_ stared at her phone for a moment, dazed. “Radek,” she yelled out of her office. “Hold that space on page two.”

“Rodney has called,” Radek Zelenka, replied as he stuck his head inside of her office.

Elizabeth nodded, “he finally got that story on John Sheppard.”

“The golfer?” Radek asked, incredulously. “The one no one can get more than one word sentences out of?”

“The very same.” Elizabeth nodded again.

“This ought to be interesting,” He commented as he walked back to his own desk.

“At the very least,” she replied going back to checking on what else was needed for the upcoming issue. “Very interesting indeed.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

As a child John Sheppard used to watch his father in their basement as he very carefully made his own golf clubs, or fixed the old ones, whose grip had become too worn down to use. Charles Sheppard would sit there for hours on end working on a club, until it was just perfect. Smoke curled up into the ceiling from the pipe that perpetually hung from his mouth.

John’s first club was a shortened putter that his father made for him, a club he still owns to this day. Strips of weight were added onto the head throughout his childhood, as John got better. 

He practiced in that very basement, on the portable putting green his father had set up, whenever he could. Eventually he was given an entire set of clubs that his father had found at a garage sale.

John grew up watching The Shark, The Bear and The Man in Black and he knew from a young age that playing golf was what he wanted to do with his life. True he wanted to imitate his father, but they also had been his heroes. 

Charles Sheppard was a decent golfer. He played mostly on the amateur circuit, but managed to make it to one or two pro tournaments. 

John played in junior league tournaments as well as in the First Tee program, and while he was not the best player around, score-wise, he knew the game, and could make shots that players many years his senior would have had trouble making. He made the varsity team in his freshman year of high school, and remained in the top five players all four years. 

He made it to college on a golf scholarship, mostly wowing the coaches with his incredible ease on the course and the ‘potential for greatness’ that they always saw in him. 

During his spring break of his freshman year John went to watch his father play in a local amateur tournament back home. The clouds began to move in around the 5th hole, and by the turn after the 9th it looked to be dusk, even though it was only three o’clock in the afternoon. When the first bolt of lightning struck a tree all of the players were called into the club house, with carts going out to round up the players farthest out. 

In all the years Charles Sheppard had played, he had always refused to use a cart, said it was not necessary, he played better walking the entire course, mapping it out with his feet. And even as it poured down around him, lightning striking and the thunder rumbling, he steadily walked back to the clubhouse. 

John saw him walking up, both he and his father were drenched, both knowing that an umbrella in this weather was suicide. And for years after John would swear that he felt the energy charge around them right before a sudden crash and the horrendous smell of burnt flesh filled his senses. 

John does not remember much about what happened after that, and mostly he’s glad for that. 

A part of him died that day, right along with his father. He rarely smiled anymore. He dropped out of college and moved back home to live with his mother, who did not deal well with Charles Sheppard’s death either.

It was a few years later, after the death of his mother, that John went back to college. He went back to playing golf soon after that, finding solace in the warm sun, the green grass, and the ping his driver made every time he hit it just right.

He will never admit it to anyone, not even his doctor, but John will never go anywhere during a thunderstorm, he’ll turn on his music as loud as he can and try to tune it out.

The first thunderstorm that John experienced after his father’s death caused a panic attack so fierce that it only stopped after he passed out. He’s learned to manage it a little better. His home currently has a basement that is nearly soundproofed, stocked with all his favorite music, a practice net, a putting green, and enough alcohol to consider it a bar. 

Seven years after his father’s death John is playing his first amateur tournament. No one remembers Charles Sheppard, no one knows who this new kid is. They do not ask him any questions, the dour demeanor along with the monochrome black outfit that he has taken to wearing no doubt deterring most approaches. When he places third, rumors start to fly, and John does get asked who he is, where he’s from, and how he got so good at playing. John smiles at them briefly, but does not answer most of their questions.

More rumors begin to circulate as John steadily makes his way onto the pro circuit. But just as he predicted, everyone forgets about him when he comes in second to last and goes back to amateur. 

A year later Maxfli picks him up as a sponsor and he’s back playing the pro tournaments, so long as The Weather Channel predicts nice weather and there’s not a storm cloud in the sky.

He loves the game, always has. He plays for his father, the man who taught him the joys of early Saturday mornings not in front of a television set, but on the crisp, dew-soaked grass of a golf course as the sun began to rise.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Growing up Rodney McKay had always had a brash nature, the kind that leant itself to having had to constantly prove ones self to everyone. He’d challenge anyone for the sole sake of learning or just for the chance to call the other person an idiot. He was inquisitive, curious, and never knew when to stop. He had a brilliant mind, and could have gone into any field. But when Rodney’s incessant questioning for an article in his High School newspaper uncovered a decade of corruption in their sleepy little Canadian town, he knew exactly what he wanted to do. 

After graduating (Summa Cum Laude, like you expected anything less) Rodney began sending in articles to every newspaper he could. He would uncover something small, write a brilliantly intriguing place, mail it in and move on to the next town before it even came out. He always, of course, made sure he got a copy of the paper sent to him.

Even though he traveled all over, the mid-west and parts of Canada were still his home. He was never officially with the Associated Press, though he often submitted stories to them. He did, however, get regular calls from various news papers, requesting a story. Though for the past few years he had been working under Elizabeth Weir, the editor of the _South Bend Tribune_.

He infuriated and pleased everyone he came across. He had not spoken to his sister in years, but knew, through one of his many contacts, that she was working at a military base in Colorado. A project called Deep Space Telemetry, and if that wasn’t a cover he’d eat his tape recorder. A part of him would always regret walking away from family, but it was never a part of him that he paid much attention to.

With the AP Rodney usually uncovered scandals, both small and large, as well as covering a few local events, whenever Weir had the gall to tell him to do something.

Golf was never a sport that he got into, too many pauses and quiet spaces. Too much left unsaid. But Rodney McKay took one look at John Sheppard and knew there was a story there for him to expose no matter the cost. Of course the fact that John Sheppard could charm the pants off of anyone he approached was no obstacle for Rodney – no, none at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The difference between the right word and the almost-right word is the difference between the lightning and the lightning bug."   
> \- Mark Twain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis and all of its characters and ideas belong to Brad Wright and Jonathan C. Cooper and MGM and Acme Shark and a whole host of others whom I have failed to mention. I am not making a profit from this story. Any characters you are not familiar with are from my brain.

_"The difference between the right word and the almost-right word is the difference between the lightning and the lightning bug."  
\- Mark Twain_

**_Holding up a 1-Iron_** \- Part 2

 

As the storm clouds began to loop almost ominously in the sky, golfer John Sheppard did his best to ignore them. “They’re just clouds, they can’t hurt you,” he mumbled to himself, fighting to keep his breathing under control. He glanced over at Ronon Dex, his good friend and caddy, “what was the weather forecast for today?”

“Mostly sunny with a twenty percent chance of afternoon showers,” Ronon gruffly rattled off for the third time. In the past two hours.

“And what time is it?”

“Around four.”

“Okay,” John ran a hand through his hair, nodded and focused once more on getting to his ball and finishing this round, before he couldn’t play anymore.

A low rumble of thunder off in the distance twenty minutes later caused him to completely miss a three-foot putt on the eighteenth hole. A small groan came from the crowd; applause and whistles quickly covered it as he sank the ensuing seven-foot putt. John gave a small wave to the crowd as he began to make a beeline for his car.

“Sheppard, John Sheppard!” he turned at the sound of his name, cursing under his breath. “Rodney McKay, _South Bend Tribune_ ,” the man stuck out his hand, which John shook briefly before shoving his hands into his pockets. McKay reached into his own pocket and pulled out a small notebook and pen. “I have a couple of questions for you.”

“That’s nice,” John said, as he rocked back on his heels and nodded his head at Ronon to go get the car.

“Why are you leaving in such a hurry,” Rodney began. “Don’t you usually stick around to watch the other players finish?”

“Left the iron on at home,” he decided to go for the usual diversionary tactics he utilized when dealing with reporters.

“Can’t you get your lackey to take care of it?” Rodney indicated to where Ronon, his 6’5” built-like-a-football-star caddy had just been standing.

“He doesn’t have a key.”

Another low rumble of thunder – this one closer than the last – sent John’s eyes to the sky and he shoved his hands further in his pockets. A screech of tires behind him told him that he had an escape route. He turned to find his keys sailing towards him. He nodded his thanks to Ronon, who then walked off, presumable to get a beer from the clubhouse.

“You actually drive this?” Rodney asked, indicating to his busted up Jeep Wrangler. John shrugged, “you’re braver than I thought.”

John grinned at him, and paused at the car door. He was, for once, mildly intrigued by this reporter, “Star Wars, McKay?”

“And if you start calling me ‘Your Worshipfulness’ I will turn this into a very scathing article. Back to the questions,” and he flipped over a page of his notebook.

“You’ve already asked four questions, Mr. McKay,” John pointed out, glancing up just in time to see a brilliant flash of lightning. He breathed in sharply through his nose and gripped the doorframe tightly. “Which is, technically speaking, more than a couple. I will see you later.”

Rodney opened his mouth to protest, “fine,” he huffed. “Go check on your ‘iron’”

The ensuing rumble of thunder had John jumping into his jeep and pulling away with a screech of tires, leaving Rodney McKay with a question on his face and a determined gleam in his eye.

 

Through the fog created by Jack Daniels – and John knows he is going to hate himself in the morning – he found an M. Rodney McKay who was a staff writer for _The South Bend Tribune_ , working in the Mishawaka office. 

As the night began to bleed towards morning, according to the nearly duplicated clock hanging on the wall, John began steadily adding more Coca-Cola to his Jack and began drinking water in between every few sips. He set his laptop on the other end of the couch and stumbled towards the basement door, he gently opened it and breathed a sigh of relief when all he heard was silence.

He shut the door again and began to straighten up the basement. This storm hadn’t been as bad as previous ones, but he had only barely made it to his safe haven before nearly falling to pieces – hence the fact that he had begun with straight liquor instead of slowly getting himself drunk. John always started with liquor and tapered off to beer once the storm ended, he wasn’t stupid. Not anymore, at least.

He gathered up the articles he had printed about and by Rodney McKay. 

Once everything had been straightened up John checked his schedule, making sure he did not have to be up at any specific hour the next day and then curled up on the couch with water and ibuprofen sitting on the table and Johnny Cash still strumming on the stereo.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When he finally woke up, his head protesting ever move he made, and got the coffee maker started John pulled out the articles that he had printed out the night before. Rodney was probably the smartest man he had ever heard of. And didn’t seem to be that bad of a guy, except for the fact that he preferred hockey to golf – must be the Canadian upbringing, John surmised.

John could not find much at fault with Rodney, sure the man could be a holy terror when it came to investigating a story, but he also seemed to be very loyal to both his sources as well as most of his readers – provided they weren’t morons. His co-workers and his boss found him difficult to work with but he was, for the most part, a great guy.

How long had he been avoiding the press? More than that, how long had he been alone? Maybe it was time to just let them know about his past.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

What little information Rodney was able to find on John Sheppard covered the full spectrum of emotions. There was not near enough to write the article he wanted, and he wasn’t sure how much was true verses what was simply rumor or theory.  
According to Radek and Teyla, a couple of fellow reporters, Rodney should expect evasive answers worthy of any military cover up. Any man who could evade Teyla’s line of questioning had to have either brass ones or no emotions.

This article was probably a conspiracy against him – between Weir telling him she needed a human interest story if he wanted his paycheck this month and Radek telling him it was an impossible task it couldn’t be anything but a conspiracy. 

John Sheppard was an enigma – there was no other word for it. He was an equation whose answer – in Rodney’s opinion – was just waiting to be found.

Seriously, could his parents have come up with a more common name? There were probably six or seven other John Sheppard’s born in Indiana the same year as John and most of the people who knew John as a child had either died or moved and had left no forwarding address.

Why would Elizabeth Weir have put him on this story, when it seemed there was no real story to be found? And what was with the little smile she had tried to hide while he had been distraught – okay, yes he had been ranting – over the lack of answers he got from John Sheppard and the fact that he had used an iron as an excuse to run away?

This was not a conspiracy – no, this was harassment.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis and all of its characters and ideas belong to Brad Wright and Jonathan C. Cooper and MGM and Acme Shark and a whole host of others whom I have failed to mention. I am not making a profit from this story. Any characters you are not familiar with are from my brain.

Part 3/5

_"It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone."  
Rose Kennedy_

 

The next time John saw Rodney McKay he was practicing at the local public golf course. He thanked whatever higher power existed that it wasn’t one of his teaching days. Those kids did not need to deal with reporters, not yet. “Here to ask me a few more questions?” He took another swing.

“Yes, our conversation was cut short the other day. Did you manage to get to your iron in time?”

“Yes, I did. Thank you for asking.”

Rodney sighed, what was it going to take to get a real answer out of this man? “No bodyguard today?”

“Didn’t think I was going to need him to run interference. I see I was wrong.”

“Why do you refuse to be interviewed?”

“My life really isn’t that interesting, I wouldn’t want to bore you all with the details.”

“Shouldn’t that be up for us to decide?”

“Maybe I just want to be left alone, did you ever think about that?”

“Everyone wants their fifteen minutes of fame.” John sighed and lined up his next shot. “I bet if I was a busty blonde you would be telling me every minute detail of your life.”

John paused mid swing and laughed, “you’d think.” 

Rodney was puzzled for a moment. Politicians were so much easier to manipulate, he just had to find Sheppard’s weak spot. “How are you not burning up in those clothes? I never understood how Gary Player did it.”

John took his swing and as it sailed gracefully to the target 20 yards out he turned to Rodney, “I don’t think much about it anymore.” 

Rodney, momentarily silenced by the grace of the man and his ability to play, blinked and then scrambled for another question. “Yes, yes the Scottish invented three mind numbing things: curling, golf and scotch. The third tends to be required for the other three, in my opinion,” Rodney said condescendingly. “What is so great about this sport? Where’s the challenge?”

John grinned at him, “it’s physics. The greater torque you are able to make with your back swing, the more power, or kinetic energy is transferred onto the golf ball, which means more speed, which means more distance. The golfer’s greatest adversary is the wind, it is an entity that can not, with a great deal of certainty, be calculated into a swing.” John placed another ball on the mat and took a swing; it did not go very far. “For example,” he indicated to the ball with his club. “Because I didn’t take a slow back swing, there was not enough rotational force to power the ball forward as far as I wanted it to go. Many players will tell you that you should give a hard snap at the end of your swing with your wrist to create more speed, the fact of the matter is you are much more likely to lose speed in doing that.”

Rodney was beginning to think that John Sheppard was trying to mess with his head, “have you ever thrown a game with this knowledge?”

“Is it still cheating if you’re trying to lose?” John put away the club he was using and pulled out another one, taking a few practice swings before hitting seven or eight balls in succession. He began to pack up his clubs and grabbed his beverage from the clubhouse. Rodney noticed that the bin holding the golf balls was still half full. 

“Leaving already?” He asked, indicating to the balls.

“Someone will be along shortly to use them,” John answered with a shrug.

“How kind of you. Is there somewhere we can go to conduct this interview, if you’re done here?”

John slung his golf bag over his shoulders and gave Rodney an appraising look. A part of him was tired of evading the press. His past was something he wanted to keep to himself, he didn’t need the looks that people had given him after his father, and then his mother, had died. He grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil out of his bag and jotted his address down. “You can find me here.” He would give Rodney just enough information for a story and maybe then they’d all leave him alone. The shock on the reporter’s face was probably worth some of the heartache he was going to have to relive. 

“I should be by in an hour or two. Will you be there?” Rodney asked him, still staring at the paper.

John nodded and began to walk to his jeep. For the life of him he couldn’t figure out why he had just invited this reporter to his house. Was he that tired of hiding from the press? No, not that he could figure. Maybe if he could keep his kids out of this, it would be okay.

 

Once he go to the house, John left the front door slightly ajar and opened a beer for himself and settled in the living room, trying to figure out exactly what he was willing to freely reveal. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Rodney pulled out his tape recorder and set it on the table. “I’m going to just ask you some questions, sort of a getting to know you type of conversation, where you’re from and all that.”

“Like a first date?” John asked, leaning back in the couch, at least feigning boredom.

“Yes, well, I suppose you could consider it that,” Rodney sputtered.

“Shouldn’t we be out at a restaurant then?” John sat forward in the couch leaning towards Rodney. “Maybe a movie?”

Rodney scooted away from John towards the edge of the couch, “shouldn’t I be the one asking the questions?” he all but squeaked.

John leaned back into the couch, made a ‘go-ahead’ gesture with one hand as he took a sip of his beer with the other.

Rodney turned the tape on and rubbed his hands together, “so, lets start easy – where were you born?”

“Indiana,” John replied, laconically.

“Why did you start playing golf?”

John shrugged, “I was good at it.”

“Your parents must be proud of you,” John just shrugged, his eyes trained on the label of his beer. _There’s a story there_. Rodney thought, making a slight notation on his note pad in front of him.

“Why did you become a reporter?”

“Because my little sister already had dibs on astrophysicist. Have you ever been struck by lightning?” John flinched and stared hard at Rodney. “I mean is that why your hair does what it does?” Rodney tried to explain.

Something stirred behind John’s cool façade, “you need to leave.”

“Okay, let’s try another question,” he breathed out.

“No.”

“Why do you think you’ve never won a championship?”

John got up and began to pace, “just not good enough I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“I’ve never been in it for the winning.”

“Then why do you play?” John paused in his pacing, took a sip of beer, glanced at Rodney and began to pace again. Rodney waited for a moment. “Did you grow up playing golf?” John nodded his head. “Your father played on the amateur circuit as well, correct?”

John snapped his head at Rodney, and for a moment – just a moment – Rodney saw something unidentifiable, but very nearly grief, in his eyes. John walked over and shut the tape off. “You need to leave,” he handed Rodney the tape recorder and walked toward the door, expecting McKay to follow.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Rodney said, as he gathered his jacket along with the tape recorder.

“Not tomorrow,” John said, gruffly, and Rodney wondered just what had happened.

“Very well, I will see you on Monday,” _I have research to do this weekend_ , he thought as he walked out before John could get another word in hearing the door slam behind him with more force than was necessary. It was time to figure out what happened to daddy dearest.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

That next Monday Rodney showed up at John’s door, tape recorder and a stack of papers in hand.

John opened the door after a few minutes of Rodney’s pounding, his clothes rumpled and his hair further askew than normal, “come back tomorrow McKay,” he said, a faint smell of alcohol on his breath and then shut the door again.

Rodney blinked once, twice, raised an eyebrow and pounded on the door again. “Let me in Sheppard, I just have a few questions.”

“Not today, McKay,” Sheppard ground out.

“I told you I would be here today to finish our interview.”

“I don’t care, come back tomorrow.”

“Just a coup-”

“No,” John interrupted. He sounded as though he was right up against the door, “leave now, please.”

Perhaps it was the please, or the tone of voice that John had, despondent and almost desperate, but Rodney conceded his defeat. “Fine, I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Rodney began to step off the porch as he heard a small thump and turned back towards the door as he heard what sounded like a small but heart-wrenching sob.

Rodney’s eyes widened as he remembered the research he had done over the weekend and he glanced down at his watch to verify the date.

No, today would not be a good day to talk with John Sheppard, only child of Charles and Maryann Sheppard.

 

Rodney pulled up to John Sheppard’s house just after four, wondering what state the golfer and his house would be in after yesterday’s events. Even as Rodney reached out to knock on the door it was slowly pulled open, revealing a surprisingly smiling John Sheppard.

“Shouldn’t you be hung-over, and in pain?” Rodney asked.

“Years of practice. How’s your sister?” John asked as he followed Rodney into the living room.

“I’m sorry?” Rodney fumbled for a moment, confused.

“Your sister,” John prompted. “You mentioned her last week.”

“She’s fine, as far as I know,” Rodney replied as he sat down and pulled out his tape recorder and notebook. “I haven’t heard from her in a few years, though.”

“Why?”

“We had a bit of a falling out.” He reached down to turn on the tape recorder. “Do you have any siblings?”

“No. Would you like something to drink?”

“Have you got anything other than that thing you call beer?”

“Some wine, I think,” John rummaged through a few cabinets before pulling out a bottle. “Red okay with you? Or I might have some MGD stashed somewhere.”

Rodney rolled his eyes, “MGD would be good.” John walked in a few minutes later with a beer for each of them. “How can you afford this place if you never win any tournaments?” He began to edge closer to the story he wanted.

“Both of my parents have died,” John said after a long pause, almost sizing Rodney up before speaking. “As their only child, well you can infer the rest.”

“Your father played mostly at an amateur level, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that why you play?” John shrugged, but didn’t answer. “How old were you when he died.

John shook his head, with no real intention of answering, “were you the reason you and your sister no longer talk?”

“Nice try, nineteen, right?” John looked at him sharply.

“Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer?”

“There’s more to a math equation than the answer, the process is sometimes more important. You of all people should know that. Do you stay away from the press because you don’t want to remember what happened?”

“I just don’t want or need their pity or their sorrowful looks.” John said, resigned.

They stared at eachother for a few minutes, neither really sure what to say. 

“You went to the University of Notre Dame, correct?” John nodded. “What did you major in?”

“Applied Mathematics.”

Rodney’s eyes widened, “I’m sorry, what?”

“I have a masters in Applied Mathematics,” John said, slowly.

Rodney snapped his fingers in the air, trying to grasp at something, “7,919, Prime or not prime?”

John rolls his eyes takes a sip of beer, “Prime.” He leans towards Rodney, “131,071?”

“Oh please, prime, the sixth Mersenne Prime, to be exact. 196,743?”

“Not prime,” John replied with out hesitation.

“You actually have a brain under that rug, don't you? Ever thought of joining MENSA and everything?”

“Took the test, never joined.”

“Why didn’t you join? Oh, wait, I know, that held the potential to bring you into public spot light, didn’t it?”

“You are a very condescending man, you know that?” John said, almost teasingly. “Of course you are the one with two doctorates, correct?” At Rodney’s astonished look, John just shrugged and said, “Know your enemy.”

Rodney blinked for a moment, finished his beer, and turned off the tape recorder, “I think that’s enough for today. I’ll stop by another time and continue this interview, if that’s all right with you?”

“And if I say it’s not?” 

“I’ll stop by in a few days anyways,” Rodney smirked. 

John nodded his head, something near a smile playing on his face. “I’ll see you then.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis and all of its characters and ideas belong to Brad Wright and Jonathan C. Cooper and MGM and Acme Shark and a whole host of others whom I have failed to mention. I am not making a profit from this story. Any characters you are not familiar with are from my brain.

Part 4/5

_“Courage is the resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not the absence of fear.”  
Mark Twain_

“You know,” Rodney began as he set out his tape recorder again and pulled out his notebook. “I think this would be easier if you were in the military and I could just hack into your record.”

John just looks at him incredulously. They were beginning to develop some type of rapport, but Rodney never failed to throw him a curve ball every once in a while.

“You play for Maxfli,” Rodney went in another direction. “How did you get them to sponsor you?”

“They approached me.”

“Are there any reasons that you started playing with their equipment?”

“I found a ball at the edge of the water at a tournament once.”

“A Noodle?”

“Yeah.”

“Does it actually play any better than any other balls that you’ve ever played with?”

John looked at him strangely for a moment, “no, I just feel more comfortable with it.”   
John glanced down at his watch, “come on, McKay, there’s something I want to show you,” John said walking towards the door and out to the jeep.

“You expect me to ride in this death trap?” Rodney protested.

“Just get in.”

“Fine,” Rodney climbed in and quickly buckled the seat belt. “So, where to.”

“You’ll see,” he replied with a small smile.

“Oh my god, you’re going to kill, me aren’t you? This is why no one ever is able to report about you, they’re all dead.”

“Relax Rodney, I just want to show you what I do in my spare time.”

That made Rodney pause for a moment, _John Sheppard doesn’t tell anyone about his life._ “Are you sick?”

John turned and looked at him sharply, “what?”

Rodney grasped the door and the dashboard, “eyes on road, eyes on road.” John rolled his eyes but turned his gaze back to the road, where he hadn’t even moved over a line.

Rodney finally let go of the door and dashboard a few moments later as they turned into the public golf course where he had seen John the week before. A few kids were standing next to the clubhouse, bags standing next to them and cups of soda in their hands. At the sight of John’s jeep they all waved at him, some enthusiastically and others laconically, though the excitement could still be seen in their eyes.

“You teach golf?”

“Yup.”

“To kids?”

“Looks like.”

“Why are you showing this to me?” Rodney asked incredulously, and John just shrugged his shoulders and got out of the jeep, walking around to pull his own bag of clubs from the back.

“Hey guys,” John said, as he walked up. “This is a friend of mine, Rodney.”

“Are you a pro golfer too?” one of the younger kids asked him.

“No, I’m a reporter.” They all made faces at that. He turned to face John, “what have you been teaching them?”

“They figured that one out all on their own,” John replied with a smirk. “Rodney’s a nice reporter, he just wants to watch us practice for a while. Is that okay with you guys?”

A chorus of “yes, John,” “no prob man,” and “if he’s cool with you” followed.

John clapped his hands together, “excellent. Let’s get going, we’re wasting daylight here.”

The odd group meandered over to the practice range and managed to get three places in a row. Two of the younger kids were soon sent off to get buckets of balls using John’s range card. The pecking order was quickly established and the first three kids began warming up on the mats, all while chatting with their friends. 

John was leaning up against a short wooden fence a couple of yards behind the crew and Rodney walked up behind him, his familiar notebook and pen in hand. “Ask away, McKay, I know you’re about to burst.”

“You never talk to reporters in the first place, much less let them know about what you do in your spare time, why are you showing me this?”

“I can’t be a recluse my entire life. Make sure you take a practice swing before each shot Ronnie,” John called out to one of the kids about to hit a ball. The kid rolled his eyes, but stepped back to take a practice swing.

Rodney paused for a moment and decided to watch for a moment instead of prying. There was more to this man met the eye, and he’d known that for a while, but he never expected John Sheppard to willingly offer information about himself. Every bit of research dictated that he would avoid questions to the best of his ability and then finds the quickest escape route possible.

Sheppard had walked up to one of the mats now, calmly talking to one of the kids.

“Do you know what you’re doing wrong,” he asked her.

“I’m not rolling my hand correctly,” it was almost a question.

“And,” John prompted.

“I keep looking up.”

“Bingo – that’s your biggest problem. Your swing we can work on in a minute,” he looked around for a moment. “McKay, can you hand me my driver?”

Rodney stared at him for a full three seconds before reaching into John’s bag for the over sized TaylorMade driver, leaving the sock on. “You aren’t going to beat her with it, are you?”

“Not while you’re watching.” John turned back to the girl, “all right Lindsey, set up for your shot.” She gave him an odd look but followed suit. Once she had settled, John picked up his club and held out the shaft until the grip just barely touched her head. She looked at him with wide eyes. “Now take your swing,” he paused. “Just don’t hit me.”

A few of the other kids laughed, the girl tried to smile but focused completely on her swing. It wasn’t a perfect shot, still slightly slicing, but better than her previous five shots. And John didn’t get hit.

“Set up again.”

Lindsey took a practice swing and then stepped up to the ball and John raised his club again. “Just watch on the ball, not me, and this time focus on rolling your right hand over your left – making that perfect ‘v’ and then releasing.” She nodded, processing all of the information. She looked up at her target again, and John lifted his club, allowing her to adjust her stance before settling back. Concentrating hard again she glanced up once at Sheppard, then back down and took a swing. 

The shot was very nearly on target, only missing by a couple of feet. She turned to look at John with a smile on her face. “Great shot,” he told her. She mumbled her thanks. “Now, do it again,” and he stepped back to his position against the fence.

“You’re good with them,” Rodney commented, softly.

John shrugged, “just teaching them the way I was taught.”

“I’m surprised none of the other reporters have found out about this.”

“A couple have, but I convinced them that it wasn’t that important.”

“By what, threatening with dismemberment?”

“No, I just told them that the kid’s parents signed a no press waiver, and then I sicced a couple of the younger ones on them,” John grinned at him. “There is nothing more intimidating than three puppy dog eyes in succession.”

Rodney thought about it for a moment and had to agree. “Does that waiver actually exist, or were you just messing with them?”

“It doesn’t actually exist, I’d just rather keep them safe from the media.”

“They’re being taught by a pro athlete, they’re going to get some coverage, eventually,” Rodney pointed out.

“Kelly,” John called out to one of the kids who had begun walking back to the clubhouse. “Can you grab two waters for Rodney and me?” She nodded. “Oh, and make sure there’s no lemon in Rodney’s, okay?” She looked at John for a moment and then shrugged and walked to the clubhouse.

Rodney sputtered for a moment, “how did you know -”

“That you have a citrus allergy?” Rodney nodded. “I can research too. That was good work, by the way, on the Taylor Scandal over in Cleveland.”

“Thanks,” Rodney said, momentarily dumbfounded. He should have known that John would have researched intently before divulging any secrets. “Weren’t you telling me the other day that snapping your wrist actually slow the angular velocity, therefore cutting down the distance the ball can travel.”

“Yeah.”

“So why were you teaching her differently?”

“Because right now she needs the control, more than the distance,” he indicated to the jogging trail just to the right of the driving range. “Those joggers don’t know it, but they should be thanking me.”

“She’s that bad?” Rodney asked, glad he was behind the mats.

“Only when she’s not focusing,” he said with a grin. “Besides that, in a couple of years she’ll be in high school with a coach hotter than Cillian Murphy, and I won’t be more than a footnote in her life.”

“Should I be frightened that you find Cillian Murphy hot?” John blinked at him for a moment and opened his mouth to reply but Rodney cut him off. “And you will always matter to these kids, any moron with eyes could see that.”

John just shrugged and jumped when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket with a telltale beep. He glanced up at the sky his face going slightly pale and pulled the phone out to look at the weather report he was sure he was not going to like. He gave a sigh of relief, but his face remained pale.

“What’s wrong?” Rodney asked.

“We, uh, we may be cutting practice a little short today,” he announced to everyone there. “I’ll keep you posted.”

The kids all nodded, they had experienced this before whenever John received little messages on his phone and clouds began to darken the sky.

“Dare I ask why?” Rodney asked, intrigued.

“You’ll know it when you see it,” John replied, cryptically.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” But John made no move to answer, he just took the cups that Kelly had brought back, checking to make sure that there was no lemon in either. He handed one to Rodney and leaned back against the fence, watching the troops practice. 

Rodney glanced around the driving range, checking to see if it was perhaps another reporter that John was trying to avoid. He was an investigative reporter, damn it, he should be able to figure this out. What was it that made John want to leave these kids, when he was so clearly enjoying himself? A quick glance over at John did not tell him much as he was focusing intently on the kids practicing, or was he? 

John had one hand on his pocket where his cell phone rested and he kept taking quick peeks to the end of the range, where none of his kids could actually hit a shot. Rodney looked to see what it was that could possibly capture his attention. 

There were clouds gathering in the distance, not white fluffy clouds, but those ominous “tut tut looks like rain” kind of clouds. Could that be it? No…well…maybe.

As the clouds began to loom closer, making their way to just beyond the tennis courts that were past the end of the driving range, John’s cell phone beeped again. With a small grimace he opened it and muttered a few choice words. “All right,” he announced. “If everyone could please call their ride and let them know I will be leaving early due to an emergency. You have about twenty or thirty minutes.”

The kids began pulling out cell phones and packing up their clubs, in a surprisingly well ordered fashion that almost screamed routine to Rodney. He glanced over to John, only to find that he had moved and was quite nearly pacing up and down a small section of grass behind the range. He watched for about ten minutes and then the kids started getting picked up, John glancing up from his pacing long enough to wave goodbye and say he was sorry for ending the practice early. 

The clouds had all but covered the course and a flash of lightning in the distance followed by John’s sharp inhale of breath confirmed Rodney’s theory of what was going through John’s head. “You’re afraid of thunderstorms,” he stated.

John looked at him, his face carefully devoid of emotion. “I have something to take care of at home, Rodney, that’s all.”

“Left your ‘iron’ on again?” 

“You might want to tread carefully here, Mr. McKay.” 

Ah, so we were back to that again, Rodney thought. He saw that the last kid was picked up and John picked up his bag, pulled out his keys and began making a beeline for his jeep. Rodney jogged to keep up. He understood fear, as a person who had many serious allergies and hypoglycemia; fear was something he understood very well. 

The ride back to the house was silent. John’s knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel and drove what Rodney figured was like a bat out of hell (or a fighter-pilot, but he wasn’t sure there was much of a difference).

At the house John walked swiftly up to the porch and began walking into the house when he turned to Rodney, “you have two choices, you can go home and leave me be, or you can come in and probably get that story you’ve been dying to get.” He ran his fingers through his hair, throwing it further askew. “I would personally prefer the first, but I know you probably aren’t going to want to leave right now anyway.”

“You aren’t wrong about that.” And the two of them walk into the house and down to the basement.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“These lines of lightning mean we’re never alone”_  
>  -Counting Crows _Accidentally in Love_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis and all of its characters and ideas belong to Brad Wright and Jonathan C. Cooper and MGM and Acme Shark and a whole host of others whom I have failed to mention. I am not making a profit from this story. Any characters you are not familiar with are from my brain.

Part 5/5

 

 _“These lines of lightning mean we’re never alone”_  
-Counting Crows _Accidentally in Love_

 

Down in the basement John was steadily sipping on his Jack and Coke, Rodney had made a face when he had pulled out the bottle so John had made him a Vodka and Red Bull instead. John had John Mellencamp’s _Scarecrow_ album nearly blasting out of the speaker. 

A full half hour and another Jack and Coke passed before John got up and turned the music down a bit, Rodney had nearly made it through his first drink. 

“So you do this every time there is a thunderstorm?” Rodney asked. John nodded his head, trying hard to focus on the sound of Rodney’s voice and not the slight vibrations he could still feel from the thunderstorm going on outside. “What do you do at tournaments? Most hotels I know don’t have basements that are available to the public as rooms.”

“I usually get a room on the ground floor, with no windows,” his voice slightly slurred with the amount of alcohol he’d already had and the near panic attack he was experiencing. 

“How do you survive tornado season?” John just winced and drank some more.

Rodney began looking around the room, taking in the man cave he had entered. There was a well stocked liquor cabinet that was, in actuality, a bar, against one wall. A stereo and a refrigerator on the wall across from the couch on which he was currently seated. A coffee table sat just in front of the couch, with a few notebooks, some pens and a laptop. Rodney had to admit it was a nice little place, very John, especially as the walls were all painted black. 

A guitar was leaning up against a table next to the bar area. “What is that contraption?” Rodney asked, indicating to a large black machine sitting on the table.

“A Jägermeister machine,” John said, simply as he changed discs on the stereo. He got up and pulled a Red Bull out of the fridge and a grabbed two very strange looking shot glasses from the shelf. He poured the drink and handed on to Rodney. “Try it, it’s called a Jäger Bomb.”

John knocked the shot back in a way that could only mean he’d done one a few times before. Rodney took a slightly slower approach – taking it in two separate gulps. It had an odd taste and went quickly to his head. “Huh.”

“Yeah.”

“How did you get this, shouldn’t this only be in bars?”

“You could buy someone’s soul on ebay,” John grinned and Rodney thinks it should be considered either a warning of trouble to come, or a wonder of the world. “A friend of mine, Evan Lorne, saw my downstairs bar and figured I needed one for parties. Do you need another drink?”

“Um, yeah.” John takes his glass and quickly pours him another drink, and one for himself. “What on Earth are we listening to?” 

John snorts, “I guess this is the last time I let Lindsey make a mix for me. She makes them for people’s birthday,” he tried to explain.

“There’s no logic to how the songs are arranged, it’s country followed by pop followed by metal.”

“It’s alphabetical.”

“Oh.” Rodney ran through the tracks he had just heard, “wait, no it’s not.”

“By album,” 

“Of all the stu-”

“You up for another Jäger Bomb?”

Rodney shrugged, “sure. Did any of the other reporters ever find out about your bat cave?”

“None that I know of. You’re the first who has been any where near me when a thunderstorm hit and I had to bolt. Also the first to figure out my Achilles Heel.” John brought the Jäger Bombs back to the couch, feet slightly dragging along the way. They both drained the shot quickly this time, and their world was steadily getting fuzzier by the moment. 

The next song came on and Rodney groaned, “I’m sorry, but I can put up with the randomness of this CD not Counting Crows. Anything but that.”

“What’s wrong with the Counting Crows, Rodney?” John asked with all the petulance of a child.

“Not my generation, that’s all.”

“Fine, what would you like to hear then?”

Rodney glanced back over at the guitar in the corner, “can you play?”

John followed Rodney’s line of sight and nodded. He got up to get the guitar, sat back down and checked to make sure it was in tune. “Any requests?”

“Any thing less poppy than that?” Rodney offered not really sure what he wanted to hear and began sipping on his drink again. 

John thought for a moment and then began playing a slow song that was probably more depressing than the Counting Crows. “I hurt myself today,” he began and Rodney stopped drinking, just staring at the man before him. 

It may have been the alcohol talking but John Sheppard didn’t just seem to play the music – he lived and breathed every note as though it had been written about him. And he must have said that out loud, because John stopped playing and looked at him with an indecipherable look upon his face. 

“Have you ever tried taking something,” Rodney asked. “You know, to deal with the panic attacks?”

John nodded, “it messed up my game,” he stared at the far wall and took another swallow of his drink. “Almost as much as the lightning did.” He set his drink down and began strumming again. 

“Because that song hasn’t been overplayed in the past thirty years,” Rodney said sarcastically. 

Okay, no _American Pie_. He tried another one, and glanced up at Rodney who was slowly nodding his head and unconsciously swaying to the music. “There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold, and she’s buying the stairway to heaven.” John continued to play as Rodney hummed along.

In a slightly slurred voice, eyes still closed Rodney chimed in, “There's a feeling I get when I look to the west, and my spirit is crying for leaving.”

They looked at each other, a sense of longing in each of their eyes. 

“The, ah, the couch is also a bed,” John stuttered. “If you want to, wanna stay, you know, tonight.”

Rodney nodded his head. John set the guitar down and turned the music back on. _Moments like This,_ by Allison Krauss and Union Station begins to play. 

The bed was barely open, sheets already on it, when their eyes met again and the rest of the night is lost to a storm neither had to fear.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

John wakes up with his head pounding, his brain threatening to explode through his skull. He can hear his heartbeat; feel the air conditioner move across his skin, and he figures it’s a good thing that he doesn’t smell any vomit. Everything is too much. _How much did I drink last night?_ he muses. _What the hell happened?_

John opens his eyes and glances around, wincing at the bright light streaming through the window. He notices his guitar is leaning against the wall, and vaguely remembers puling it out last night. An unfamiliar pair of boxers is lying on the floor next to it and he frowns for a moment, he opens his eyes wider in surprise and turns to look at the warm body lying in the bed next to him.

He grins slightly to himself. Rodney looks absolutely adorable sleeping in his bed. The night before steadily comes back to him and he remembers where he got all the _nice_ aches on and in his body. Rodney mumbles something for a moment but doesn’t wake and John wonders when the last time was that Rodney actually got a good night sleep. _How long has it been for you?_ He asks himself, knowing the answer probably wouldn’t be much better than Rodney’s.

John gets up out of bed, careful not to disturb Rodney. He’s surprisingly comfortable padding around in nothing but his birthday suit. He doesn’t know why, but with Rodney everything just feels right in the world, a feeling that hasn’t existed in his life for a long time. At least since before his father died.

In the bathroom, John’s headache has lessened a bit, as there are no windows to let in the currently evil bright light known as the sun. He splashes some water on his face, in an attempt to wash away some of the grime he feels from drinking too much. He fills a glass with water and grabs the entire bottle of ibuprofen and walks back out to the main room, to Rodney.

Rodney still has not moved from lying on his stomach, with both hands, palm up running parallel to his body. John nudges Rodney slightly with his hand. With a moan Rodney tries to bury himself deeper into the covers. “Oh, god,” he groans. 

“Take this,” John helps Rodney sit up and shoves the ibuprofen and water into his hands. He mumbles his thanks and quickly swallows the pills. As he hands the glass back to John he blearily opens one eye, “morning?”

John smiles, “go back to sleep Rodney.”

Rodney nods once and curls on his side, quickly falling back asleep. John watches for a moment, feeling so at peace and then curls around Rodney with one hand slung over his waist and there is a smile on his face as he falls asleep. 

 

 

 _Holding up a 1-Iron_  
By M. Rodney McKay

Those of you who have read my articles before may find this one a little different from the norm. It is not something you would expect from an investigative reporter, such as myself. John Sheppard will make you look at life from a different perspective without even meaning to. It is how he lives – and how he influences those around him. 

This will be my last regular article in _The South Bend Tribune_ , though I do not doubt I will be called upon for submissions in the future. I will be traveling to Houston in the spring to cover the Shell Houston Open. You all should be able to find an article or two in _Golf Digest_ following that tournament, if you are so inclined. 

John Sheppard, only child of Charles and Maryann Sheppard, has made a career in professional golf and in avoiding the advances of any other human being, for reasons previously unknown to the public. 

The PGA’s newest Man in Black has valid reasons for this; he lost his father right in front of his face as a young man and his own mother to grief only a year later. And yet despite these horrific tragedies John Sheppard stands on his own two feet as a steadily rising star on the PGA tour. 

Many have compared him to Gary Player, not just for his choice in clothing, but also for his laid-back attitude, love of the game, and slim stature. Even at six-feet tall, John Sheppard does his best to make sure he does not stand out in a crowd. A veteran of golf at the age of 35, he has seen every side of a golf course – the good and the bad.

Last year Maxfli Golf chose to sponsor John, pushing him into the pro circuit. Though how the man can play with a golf ball called a Noodle and its slogan is “long and soft” is beyond me. He considers himself very fortunate to be able to play alongside Tiger Woods, John Daly and Davis Love, III. In another comparison to Gary Player his accomplishments, as a professional golfer on the tour, are often shadowed by theirs.

He is a real man with real emotions, though he rarely shows them. He has avoided reporters for so many years, claiming his life “really isn’t that interesting.” The truth is quite the opposite, in reality. He has won relatively few tournaments, playing the game more for the joy of being on the course. 

Very few people remember Charles Sheppard, John’s father, who taught golf at the local First Tee program as well as being an amateur golfer. John says that he became a golfer, mostly because of his father. The shock of seeing his father killed on a golf course at such a young age would have sent most people as far from the course as possible. But not John Sheppard, he honors his father’s memory every time he plays. 

A mathematical genius, John has qualified for MENSA though he claims he will never join. If he does not want to win a tournament – he won’t. He lives and breathes golf. It is his life, even from a young age. But it is not all who he is.

In addition to playing the pro circuit – or at least a few tournaments a year – John also teaches golf at a local public course to kids of all ages. Every kid there loves every minute of it. John is very conscientious and treats each kid as they were his own. “I’m just teaching them the way I was taught,” he says with a small shrug. 

This man in black does not leave a trail of dead in his wake; he does not carry a guitar on his back – even though he can play. He plays golf as though the club was an extension of his body and the course seems to sing to him. John Sheppard may never be a champion, like Tiger Woods or Arnold Palmer, but he will teach us to be better golfers, better siblings, better friends, and, quite possibly, better humans.

 

Epilogue:

 

“Do you have somewhere to be?” John asked, holding Rodney a little closer.

“No, but -”

“But nothing,” Rodney began to pull away again. “Stay.”

“But,” he protested.

“Please.”

When Rodney finally wakes up the next morning, glancing over a still sleeping John, what has a small smile on his face, he makes a quick call to Elizabeth to let her know the article was ready and then he takes a deep breath and dials a number he never thought he would have to guts to dial.

“Hey Jeannie,” he says. “How is Madison doing?”


End file.
